


Balance (Not to be Confused with Cosmic Harmony)

by Cat_Latin



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Community: slashfest, M/M, No Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 23:47:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat_Latin/pseuds/Cat_Latin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As above, so below.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balance (Not to be Confused with Cosmic Harmony)

We've established that there are many Schools of Thought concerning When Things Began, and how most of said schools aren't, or ever will be, accredited.

The fact is, beginnings are cheap and abundant.  _This_ began nearly a decade ago, due to the natural frenetic energy, inherent risk-taking behavior and curiosity of your typical teenage Spawn of the Adversary.  

Nineteen-year-old Adam Young needed to get out of Tadfield.  The rest of the Them had disbanded and gone off to university, there was nothing to do of a Saturday night, and his parents just didn't _understand_.  For once, he wasn't thinking about The Future.  He was thinking about _his_ future.  So he went off and made stories. Once or twice, he nearly destroyed the world.  He didn’t mean to.

Nobody's perfect.

 

***

 

_In the beginning..._

"It's Rome, all over again," Crowley said with some satisfaction.  It wasn't quite what the demon wanted, but he could respect a job well done, even one done by an overindulged Antichrist who’d lost touch with how his own dramas and whims affected the rest of the world.

"I'm afraid it's worse," the angel replied, fiddling nervously with the hem of his coat.  Crowley noted with approval that Aziraphale’s dress sense had evolved from the fifties to a few of the more elegant chapters of the last couple of decades.  It was definitely an improvement.  But the angel was speaking, so Crowley supposed he should shift his attention from Aziraphale’s arse to his mouth.  Mmmm.

"Divorce rates have skyrocketed, if that can be believed,” Aziraphale was saying.  “Social diseases and drug-use are at an all-time high.  Viagra outsells aspirin, and no less than eighteen major political figures are embroiled in sex scandals." 

"Something must be done," Crowley said firmly, and raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale’s incredulous look.

"Well, it's not _fun_ anymore, is it?" 

And it wasn't.  It was overkill, this spike in human licentiousness, media saturated, and similar to eating way too much of your favorite dessert.  Delicious of course, but you still wanted to throw up.

Finding Adam was simple.  They followed the trail of paparazzi to a lavish cliff-side retreat.  It was surrounded by ocean and sky, and equipped with a score of fawning groupies cavorting about like nymphs and satyrs, a bar the length of a tennis court, and several _extremely_ well-stocked medicine cabinets. 

Adam lay sprawled at the center of this decadent splendor, naked and half-conscious, reclining on a pile of pillows and gently squirming people. 

He regarded the approaching angel and demon with bloodshot, heavy-lidded eyes.

"I thought you two were advised to bugger off," Adam slurred.

"We took it under advisement," Crowley replied smoothly, taking in the surroundings with a professional‘s eye.

A couple of nearby groupies were nursing at Adam's nipples and cock.  He didn't seem to notice.  Aziraphale averted his eyes.  Crowley rolled his.  "Time to sober up," he announced.

"Aaah!"  Adam was yanked to his feet by the hair, and struck hard and repeatedly by ruthless and precise invisible forces until he was reeling.

Rehab's a bitch.  Six months of rehab in eleven seconds, applied to the back of one's skull like a two-by-four was _infernal._

"Bloody hell!  What did you do that for?"

"We're trying to help you," Aziraphale soothed.  "All of you, really," he added, sweeping his arm in a gesture that encompassed Adam's entourage and the rest of the world.

"Well save it, and push off," Adam growled, wrapping an exquisitely tailored silk robe around himself and stalking off to the Jacuzzi.

But things did quiet down for a bit after that, and Aziraphale went back to collecting rare books and perfecting Habitat for Humanity, and Crowley went back to killing houseplants and developing the next wave of Reality Television. 

Both were taking credit for stem cell research. 

 

***

_Until..._  
  
Aziraphale sighed.  "All fifty U.S. states have reinstated Prohibition and the death penalty.  Cucumbers and oysters have been outlawed _everywhere,_ to be replaced by the holy matrimony of Church and State, and here at home the Prime Minister's wife is scheduled to be stoned to death for flashing a glimpse of ankle."

"Could we perhaps wait to find Adam until that bit's through?  Never really liked her."  Crowley ignored Aziraphale’s glare and opened one of the special maps in the angel's collection of antiquities.  He scowled.  "Looks like we'll be leaving the Bentley in London." 

They tracked Adam down to a remote monastery accessible only by donkey.  "Bloody ascetics," Crowley muttered, rubbing his sore backside.  "These aren't the ones who worship some dead pope's dried shit, are they?"

Aziraphale shuddered delicately.  "I've been out of touch with this Order for centuries.  Hopefully not."

Fortunately, these monks just kept a vow of silence.

Adam sat at the heart of the monastery in a windowless room, hunched by a single candle, painstakingly copying an obscure text on the sinfulness of everything. 

When he saw the angel and the demon approach, he grabbed a clean piece of vellum and began scribbling furiously.  After a time, he shoved the completed work under their noses.

Crowley let out a low whistle.   Aziraphale said, "My word; I’ve never seen _that_ written in such lovely illuminated script.” 

“Brown is _not_ your color,” Crowley added.  
   
"Haven't deprogrammed anyone since that business in Beverly Hills," Aziraphale muttered.  "Never thought I'd be pulling the plug on one of mine."

"Live and learn," Crowley said, as they both rolled up their sleeves.

 

***

_And then_...

Adam found his voice again, and subsequently ditched the angel and demon.  Again.  But in the hours between, in a dim pub, in an unremarkable village, he slouched morosely over an untouched pint and told them about university, and how it hadn’t been a challenge at all.  He told them what had become of the Them:  Dog had lived to a ripe old dog's age, then remarkably, had passed on to chase rabbits in the Sky.  Pepper had gone off to a college in America, had met and married some politician’s son named Warlock and sent Adam a Christmas card every year with pictures of her children.  Brian and Wensley had taken a flat in London and were looking to adopt.  Adam called on them from time to time, but he just felt like a third wheel.

It was patently obvious to his rescuers.  
Adam needed a new gang, and new games to play.

 

 

***

 

Chronological age becomes relative when you’ve lived since _the_ Beginning.  Still, some ideas require examining.

Crowley asked, “You’re sure it’s not creepy?”

“Yes, for the same reason you’ve assured me it’s not immoral.  The day of Almost-Armageddon aside, we never actually _watched_ him grow up.  We weren’t involved.  _That_ would make it creepy.  And since when are you troubled by creepy?”

Idea duly examined, they went to fetch Adam. 

“Have you noticed, we always know where to find him?”

“What of it?”

“Means he’s letting us.”

“Ah.”

 

***

_Now_...

Bored and sidling towards 30, Adam returned to Tadfield, to wander around, to just have a look.  The place was still lovely to his jaded eyes, and yes, everything _did_ seem much smaller. 

He wasn’t surprised where his feet took him, even less surprised to find who was waiting for him there.

Of all the games he'd played here, Adam never dreamed he'd end up playing _this_ among the skeletons of shopping carts and corrugated tin in the chalk pit that was once his childhood headquarters.

"It's all about Balance," the angel murmured in his ear, as the demon freed the buttons of Adam's fly.

Even the milk crates were still there. 

“I thought your kind had nothing going on below the belt,” Adam said, his voice cracking a bit.  There was plenty going on below his.

“Not as a rule.”

“Not without some effort.”

“But we have an Arrangement.”

“And since that business with the world almost ending, we figure, life’s too short.”

“Not _ours,_ really, but---”

“Shut up,”  Crowley said, and kissed Aziraphale thoroughly.  Adam’s mouth went dry.

“Is that even allowed?” 

“Proper balance is always allowed,” the angel replied, his lips not quite leaving the demon’s.

“Yeah.  Look how well we get along,” Crowley said, giving his counterpart’s chin a playful nip.

Their bodies separated slowly, not far, and Adam stepped into the space in between.  Crowley immediately went for Adam’s ass, spreading his fingers for a good squeeze.  “Neanderthal,” Aziraphale murmured, and pulled Adam in for a proper kiss.  “Hey, I can do that too,” the demon said.  Crowley’s tongue swept around Adam’s mouth in ways that weren’t physically possible, while the angel’s palms smoothed white light across his skin.

They were in a chalk pit in lower Tadfield, but by a combination of all their wills, it was also a place that was the ultimate in privacy and comfort.  Clothing vanished, and Adam lost track of the number of hands and mouths that were mapping every spot, stroking him hard, opening him up and slowly taking him apart.

Somehow the angel had ended up behind him, _above_ him, those large, knowing hands holding Adam's hips steady as he pushed sweetly home.  It was so good, Adam was drunk with it, but he still had to bite back a joke about flaming swords.  Meanwhile, he had a handful of smirking demon under him, snake-eyed and attractively wicked.  Crowley wriggled, boneless and spectacular, so his legs were wrapped high around Adam’s torso, leaving Adam’s erection poised just _there_.  Nothing to do but devour Crowley’s mouth and sink in, ebb and flow between them like the lewdest most blissed-out metronome _ever_.

As above, so below.

And the world righted itself, or at least unstuck itself, to resume its slow, steady spin.


End file.
